John Mayne, chiefly known as the author of "The Siller Gun," a poem descriptive of burgher habits in Scotland towards the close of the century, was born at Dumfries, on the 26th of March 1759. At the grammar school of his native town, under Dr Chapman, the learned rector, whose memory he has celebrated in the third canto of his principal poem, he had the benefit of a respectable elementary education; and having chosen the profession of a printer, he entered at an early age the printing office of the Dumfries Journal. In 1782, when his parents removed to Glasgow, to reside on a little property to which they had succeeded, he sought employment under the celebrated Messrs Foulis, in whose printing establishment he continued during the five following years. He paid a visit to London in 1785, with the view of advancing his professional interests, and two years afterwards he settled in the metropolis.
Mayne, while a mere stripling, was no unsuccessful wooer of the Muse; and in his sixteenth year he produced the germ of that poem on which his reputation chiefly depends. This production, entitled "The Siller Gun," descriptive of a sort of walkingshaw, or an ancient practice which obtained in his native town, of shooting, on the king's birth-day, for a silver tube or gun, which had been presented by James VI. to the incorporated trades, as a prize to the best marksman, was printed at Dumfries in 1777, on a small quarto page. The original edition consisted of twelve stanzas; in two years it increased to two cantos; in 1780, it was printed in three cantos; in 1808, it was published in London with a fourth; and in 1836, just before his death, the author added a fifth. The latest edition was published by subscription, in an elegant duodecimo volume.
In 1780, in the pages of Ruddiman's Weekly Magazine, Mayne published a short poem on "Halloween," which suggested Burns's celebrated poem on the same subject. In 1781, he published at Glasgow his song of "Logan Braes," of which Burns afterwards composed a new version.
In London, Mayne was first employed as printer, and subsequently became joint-editor and proprietor, along with Dr Tilloch, of the Star evening newspaper. With this journal he retained a connexion till his death, which took place at London on the 14th of March 1836.
Besides the humorous and descriptive poem of "The Siller Gun," which, in the opinion of Sir Walter Scott, surpasses the efforts of Ferguson, and comes near to those of Burns,[21] Mayne published another epic production, entitled "Glasgow," which appeared in 1803, and has passed through several editions. In the same year he published "English, Scots, and Irishmen," a chivalrous address to the population of the three kingdoms. To the literary journals, his contributions, both in prose and verse, were numerous and interesting. Many of his songs and ballads enriched the columns of the journal which he so long and ably conducted. In early life, he maintained a metrical correspondence with Thomas Telford, the celebrated engineer, who was a native of the same county, and whose earliest ambition was to earn the reputation of a poet.[22]
Possessed of entire amiability of disposition, and the utmost amenity of manners, John Mayne was warmly beloved among the circle of his friends. Himself embued with a deep sense of religion, though fond of innocent humour, he preserved in all his writings a becoming respect for sound morals, and is entitled to the commendation which a biographer has awarded him, of having never committed to paper a single line "the tendency of which was not to afford innocent amusement, or to improve and increase the happiness of mankind." He was singularly modest and even retiring. His eulogy has been pronounced by Allan Cunningham, who knew him well, that "a better or warmer-hearted man never existed." The songs, of which we have selected the more popular, abound in vigour of expression and sentiment, and are pervaded by a genuine pathos.
LOGAN BRAES.[23]
By Logan's streams, that rin sae deep,
Fu' aft wi' glee I've herded sheep,
I've herded sheep, or gather'd slaes,
Wi' my dear lad, on Logan braes.
But, waes my heart! thae days are gane,
And I wi' grief may herd alane;
While my dear lad maun face his faes,
Far, far frae me and Logan braes.
Nae mair at Logan kirk will he
Atween the preachings meet wi' me,
Meet wi' me, or, whan it's mirk,
Convoy me hame frae Logan kirk.
I weel may sing thae days are gane—
Frae kirk and fair I come alane,
While my dear lad maun face his faes,
Far, far frae me and Logan braes.
At e'en, when hope amaist is gane,
I daunder dowie and forlane;
I sit alane, beneath the tree
Where aft he kept his tryste wi' me.
Oh, could I see thae days again,
My lover skaithless, and my ain!
Beloved by friends, revered by faes,
We'd live in bliss on Logan braes.
HELEN OF KIRKCONNEL.[24]
I wish I were where Helen lies,
For night and day on me she cries;
And, like an angel, to the skies
Still seems to beckon me!
For me she lived, for me she sigh'd,
For me she wish'd to be a bride;
For me in life's sweet morn she died
On fair Kirkconnel-Lee!
Where Kirtle waters gently wind,
As Helen on my arm reclined,
A rival with a ruthless mind
Took deadly aim at me.
My love, to disappoint the foe,
Rush'd in between me and the blow;
And now her corse is lying low,
On fair Kirkconnel-Lee!
Though Heaven forbids my wrath to swell,
I curse the hand by which she fell—
The fiend who made my heaven a hell,
And tore my love from me!
For if, when all the graces shine,
Oh! if on earth there 's aught divine,
My Helen! all these charms were thine,
They centred all in thee!
Ah! what avails it that, amain,
I clove the assassin's head in twain?
No peace of mind, my Helen slain,
No resting-place for me.
I see her spirit in the air—
I hear the shriek of wild despair,
When murder laid her bosom bare,
On fair Kirkconnel-Lee!
Oh! when I 'm sleeping in my grave,
And o'er my head the rank weeds wave,
May He who life and spirit gave
Unite my love and me!
Then from this world of doubts and sighs,
My soul on wings of peace shall rise,
And, joining Helen in the skies,
Forget Kirkconnel-Lee.
THE WINTER SAT LANG.
The winter sat lang on the spring o' the year,
Our seedtime was late, and our mailing was dear;
My mither tint her heart when she look'd on us a',
And we thought upon those that were farest awa'.
Oh, were they but here that are farest awa'!
Oh, were they but here that are dear to us a'!
Our cares would seem light and our sorrow but sma',
If they were but here that are far frae us a'!
Last week, when our hopes were o'erclouded wi' fear,
And nae ane at hame the dull prospect to cheer;
Our Johnnie has written, frae far awa' parts,
A letter that lightens and hauds up our hearts.
He says, "My dear mither, though I be awa',
In love and affection I 'm still wi' ye a';
While I hae a being ye 'se aye hae a ha',
Wi' plenty to keep out the frost and the snaw."
My mither, o'erjoy'd at this change in her state,
By the bairn she doated on early and late,
Gi'es thanks night and day to the Giver of a',
There 's been naething unworthy o' him that 's awa'!
Then here is to them that are far frae us a',
The friend that ne'er fail'd us, though farest awa'!
Health, peace, and prosperity wait on us a';
And a blithe comin' hame to the friend that 's awa'!
MY JOHNNIE.
Air—"Johnnie's Gray Breeks."
Jenny's heart was frank and free,
And wooers she had mony, yet
The sang was aye, "Of a' I see,
Commend me to my Johnnie yet.
For ear' and late, he has sic gate
To mak' a body cheerie, that
I wish to be, before I dee,
His ain kind dearie yet."
Now Jenny's face was fu' o' grace,
Her shape was sma' and genty-like,
And few or nane in a' the place,
Had gowd or gear mair plenty, yet
Though war's alarms, and Johnnie's charms,
Had gart her oft look eerie, yet
She sung wi' glee, "I hope to be
My Johnnie's ain dearie yet.
"What though he's now gane far awa',
Whare guns and cannons rattle, yet
Unless my Johnnie chance to fa'
In some uncanny battle, yet
Till he return my breast will burn
Wi' love that weel may cheer me yet,
For I hope to see, before I dee,
His bairns to him endear me yet."
THE TROOPS WERE EMBARKED.
The troops were all embark'd on board,
The ships were under weigh,
And loving wives, and maids adored,
Were weeping round the bay.
They parted from their dearest friends,
From all their heart desires;
And Rosabel to Heaven commends
The man her soul admires!
For him she fled from soft repose,
Renounced a parent's care;
He sails to crush his country's foes,
She wanders in despair!
A seraph in an infant's frame
Reclined upon her arm;
And sorrow in the lovely dame
Now heighten'd every charm:
She thought, if fortune had but smiled—
She thought upon her dear;
But when she look'd upon his child,
Oh, then ran many a tear!
"Ah! who will watch thee as thou sleep'st?
Who 'll sing a lullaby,
Or rock thy cradle when thou weep'st,
If I should chance to die?"
On board the ship, resign'd to fate,
Yet planning joys to come,
Her love in silent sorrow sate
Upon a broken drum.
He saw her lonely on the beach;
He saw her on the strand;
And far as human eye can reach
He saw her wave her hand!
"O Rosabel! though forced to go,
With thee my soul shall dwell,
And Heaven, who pities human woe,
Will comfort Rosabel!"
